Fragments
by Amongst-Azarath
Summary: When Artemis leaves to go undercover, those left behind struggle to go on with their lives. This is a collection of fragments that those left behind suffer in her absence. WallXArt/Spitfire


_I'm back! _

_Here's a little something to start :). This will be a little collection of one shots based on Tigress going undercover during invasion. They will also be in a non-linear format and contain multiple characters.. but mostly Wallman and Artemis._

_R+R.. Enjoy :)_

_P.S: Don't own.. and you know what my proofreading skills are like :)._

_~Aa_

* * *

><p><strong><em>Fragments<em>**

_Chapter one_

It makes him so angry. It's so heightened, so intense and so frightening that it's almost unmanageable. It's like he can't control it. It just erupts from him, exploding so unexpectedly. He can feel it boiling inside of him slowly. It bubbles for hours, before it becomes too much, spilling over, and this spill doesn't just trickle, it splatters.. everywhere. It can last a mere second or, it can spray and spatter for hours.

Then, as if it never happened, it retreats, withdrawing back to where it came from, leaving not only a mess around him, but a mess of him.

He's not even sure how it happened this time. One minute he was in control, keeping all of his emotions in check, and the next he could feel it take him over, like some sort of split personality. He didn't even feel it begin this time. He couldn't feel the rage beginning to grow or strengthen. It was non-existent and then.. a hysterical frenzy, far beyond any rage that he had ever known.

He can feel his pulse pounding in his veins all over his body like some kind of continuous electric shock. The tension in his body still remains, his muscles aching and straining under the pressure. His fingers are curled into fists, the skin taught and white over his protruding knuckles.

The feeling is beginning to return to his nerves; it seems as though they were blocked, completely unaware of any sensation. It's hitting him all at once now. The pain is blindingly obvious, shooting sharply up his right forearm and down his left shoulder blade. Pinches follow soon after – his left hamstring and right bicep.

He can feel the sweat caking his skin, beading all down his back and chest, making his lightweight tee feel sticky and thick. He can feel it trickling down the back of his neck, down his forehead and sliding down his cheeks.

A swift back of the hand swipe glides across his left cheek, but stops midway, realising that there's more than just sweat decorating his freckly features. How could he not notice that he's crying? There's more than just tears on his pale cheeks, there are steams, leaving his entire face and neck saturated. His eyes continue to well, letting more tears shed. Frantically he tries to brush them away, like there's someone about to catch him in the act. He still uses the back of his good hand, swiping across both cheeks, underneath his nose, across his swollen mouth and under the nook of his neck, hoping that they just magically disappear with one quick wipe.

But he only makes it worse. A sob rips from his throat. He can hear the agony and the heartbreak in his own cry, but he can't_ feel_ it. He feels numb. He slaps a hand over his mouth, afraid of what might escape next.

Then, it's as if his surroundings suddenly appear. His jaw drops and the other hand slaps directly over the top of his left. His eyes are in disbelief of what he sees. He's trashed their bedroom. It's almost beyond unrecognisable. Clothes are strewn from one side of the room to the other. The mattress has been flipped off the frame of the bed, balancing delicately against the window frame; it's sheets, pillows and quilt are scattered throughout the room. The slats of the bed are resting inside the open built in wardrobe, snapped and splintered. Various marks, dents and holes decorate the cream walls. Their matching bed side tables.. one is in pieces, clumped next to the far wall beside the wardrobe. It's matching counterpart sits directly beside him, perfectly untouched. That was her bedside table.

They're photograph still sits on it. Inside the simple black frame sits a black and white picture of him and her. He had taken it in true selfie style, with his left arm visible in the bottom of the picture. His fiery red hair, portrayed in a shade of grey, is tussled and the light spots on his face were an indication he had seen way too much sun. His smile is wide and genuine. He looks so happy. She is nuzzled in next to him, her hair out and cascading, a rare occasion for her. Her skin looks so dark next to his, the shade of his freckles not even matching her olive complexion. Her smile matches his, wide, beautiful and perfect. She looks so beautiful.

The photo was taken the day they had retired from the team.

He can feel the tears in his eyes again, pooling at his bottom lids. His hands stay tightly clasped over his mouth, sure that another sob will escape from his throat if he removes them.

What has he done?

He let her go.. willingly too. He let her go. He let her throw herself into danger. He let his best friend throw the love of his life into the middle of some twisted and conniving plot. He should've put his foot down harder. He should've told Dick to leave her out of it. He should've forbid her from going. He should've volunteered instead. He should've saved her. If only he hadn't put the suit on a couple of weeks ago to help out Bart and Barry, she might not have even have pondered offering her help to help Dick.

Now she was lurking around supervillains in plain sight. She was pretending to be one of them. She was living in perpetual danger. She would never be able to relax. She would never be able to be herself. She would be watched every single moment of the day. She would be constantly proving herself, constantly being judged. She would be making impossible decisions every day. She would be watching others suffer, people she knew – her friends. She would be suffering herself, and all on her own - and that's what hurts him the most.

His hands slide upwards from his mouth, his skin crinkling and stretching from the pressure. His finger tips reach the tip of his hairline and the water works begin again. His fingers glide through his thick tresses as he feels those salty tears sting his cheeks again. His hands slide back through his mane, with his face resting in his hands. He can't hold it anymore. A cry escapes his throat and it all just starts to flow out of him. His body shudders, his breath struggling to keep up with the sudden emotion. He's sobbing now and it slowly descends into something uncontrollable. His body collapses, his elbows sinking to the carpet. The sobs grow louder, where it's almost at the point of wailing.

Her life is in danger, and no one knows but himself, Dick, Kladur and now, M'gann. The rest of the world thinks she's dead, and after all this time, it's starting to feel like it to him too. The rest of the world thinks she's dead, and to him, after all this time, it's starting to feel like it too. He hasn't spoken to her or seen her in just under two months, and he's starting to crumble without her. All he wants to do is hold her, just to have her in his arms and tell her how much he loves her. She is his beginning and his end. He can't live without her – and he doesn't just want to tell her that, he _needs_ to. She is his other half – a half that he can never live without. He needs to tell her that without her there's like this hole.. that can't be filled, a vital part of him missing, not letting him live, but just survive. She makes his life worth living. She is his soul mate, his little spitfire. She's hot-headed arrogant, witty, generous, beautiful, independent and.. won't let him get away with anything.

That last thought makes him smile, making his sobs subside for a moment. He realises that there's something that he needs to do. If he can't talk to her, or Dick.. then he's going to have to pick the next best thing, something that he doesn't done in a long time, something that always numbs the pain.

Run.


End file.
